by Frank Dempster Sherman
Love, at your door young Cupid stands
And knocks for you to come:
The frost is in his feet and hands,
His lips with cold are numb.
Grant him admittance, sweetheart mine,
And by your cheering fire
His lips shall loosen as with wine
And speak forth my desire.
He left me not an hour ago,
And when the rascal went
Barefooted out into the snow,
I asked him whither bent.
Quoth he: "To her whose face is like
A garden full of flowers:
To her whose smiles like sunlight strike
Across the winter hours."
No more he said, nor need of more
Had I to know. I knew
His path lay straight unto your door:
That face belongs to you!
"Godspeed," I cried, "and give her this,
When you her face shall see;"
And on his lips I set a kiss,
A valentine from me!
I Care not that the snow lies deep
Upon the world about:
The hidden flowers, they lie asleep
And dream, and never doubt
But Spring shall come again and set
The rubies on the vine:
The faithful Year shall not forget
I care not that a thousand miles
Keep me and mine apart,
For when upon this page she smiles
And gladdens in her heart,
Like Spring, the sun returns to me
And cheers these eyes of mine:
My sweetheart promises to be
Be still, my heart, and like the flowers
Asleep beneath the snow,
Dream on, and soon the sunny hours
Shall wake you dreaming so:
And when the Summer's stars above
Drip with their dewy wine,
The flowers shall come, and with them, love,
Source:Lyrics For A Lute
Boston and New York, Houghton, Mifflin, and Company